Fabian used to think that his Dad, Phil, reach into his pockets and produced money out of thin air. There was something magical about Phil. For as long as Fabian could remember, Phil would chant his special chant to a crowd of people that also had money producing pockets. “Two, will you give me two” became a two-syllable sound with no breaks. Phil started off on the livestock circuit, running auctions of cattle and horses. From livestock he moved to cars, old clunkers to collectibles. He and his Dad were always on the move until Fabian put his foot down in high school and insisted they stay put long enough for him to finish his learning at which point Phil switched to estate sales. It was a finer breed of people, but their pockets produced smaller bills. Phil’s voice always smooth like a surface of ice polished fine by a zamboni called out to Fabian one day between “one dollar bid, now two, now two, will ya give me two?” and “two dollar bid, now three, now three, will ya give me three” “Fabian water please”. He slipped it in two more times. No one noticed save Fabian who immediately called 911. Looking up at the crowd of large families and local charity administrators Phil fell silent. Then his knees buckled.